Mirror Image
by ladypredator
Summary: This is technically an AU story - a rewrite of the ending of 24:Redemption to emphasize and continue Jack's relationship with Carl Benton. It's slash, so if you don't like that kind of thing, be warned. :


The impact of the explosion flung Jack Bauer backwards; the sudden shockwave ringing discordantly in his ears. Carl Benton was flung into him, knocking the remaining air out of Jack's lungs. Jack was still trying to make sense of what had just happened when Carl scrambled to his feet, running on unsteady feet.

"Willy! No! Willy!" Carl shouted, anguish twisting in his voice.

Understanding and horror hit Jack as he stumbled to his feet and ran after his old friend. The scarf, that ridiculous woman's scarf that the little boy had held onto like a talisman, was bizarrely still there, stuck to a bush. The sight made Jack want to vomit. So much loss, always, and it was inevitably the innocent who suffered.

Carl leapt forward, reaching for it. Jack, in turn, stretched out a hand to stop him.

"Carl," he warned, barely able to hear his own voice. If there was one landmine, there'd be others.

He'd grasped hold of Carl's arm, spinning him around.

And for one terrifying, awful, moment, Jack knew he was staring death in the face.

Carl's striking, expressive eyes had gone black, the biting cold of a windswept, starless, desert night. Grief, pain, loss were all held at bay by the instinct of a trained killer, one of the very few men in this world against whom Jack would not have bet on himself.

Looking into those eyes was like staring into a mirror. Brown echoed blue echoed brown echoed blue, an endless reflection in one suspended moment, simultaneously endless and fragile.

It shattered with something as literally simple as the blink of an eye. Carl blinked and nearly crumpled into Jack's arms. Those deadly eyes turned liquid with unshed tears, as limpid as those of a startled deer.

Jack held him up as they both gasped for breath in shared, shocked grief.

"Mr. Benton?" called the hesitant voice of another child and that broke through, forced them to focus.

"Take the kids and go," Jack hissed in Carl's ear.

"No," was the soft, but definitive reply before Carl lifted his voice, controlling it with smooth practice.

"Thomas, take the boys on ahead. You know the way. Stay on the path, all of you!" Carl ordered. "Go, go now! We'll catch up in a second. GO!" The last was said in a familiar tone, one Jack hadn't heard for a decade, the swift, certain command. Thomas and the remaining boys obeyed instantly.

"They need you, Carl, go with them," Jack insisted as soon as the others were gone from sight. "Juma's soldiers will have heard the explosion; I'll hold them off. Hurry!"

The piercing look Carl gave him was enough - Jack didn't question him again. Oh, Jack wanted to, desperately, but he also knew Carl needed this. They both needed this. In the end they were men who lived in motion, in action. Carl had found a couple of years of peace; but with that temporary calm destroyed, old patterns asserted themselves.

They were silent hunters, reading each other almost telepathically, years of distance and separation peeling away as though they'd never been apart.

Jack got one with the rifle and one by hand, the crack of the breaking vertebrae in the neck satisfying as his hearing recovered from the explosion that had killed a beautiful child. He twisted around at a gunshot and thud behind him to find another young soldier, too damn young, collapsed at his feet.

The last of the group, older, a leader perhaps, was pinned like a butterfly to a tree, a long-bladed knife stuck through his upper chest, blood frothing from his lips. Carl was advancing on him in a precise, graceful stride, but Jack seized his shoulder.

"There isn't time," he warned, glancing back in the direction the boys had gone. "Let's go."

This time Carl agreed and they ran swiftly back through the jungle.

---

Jack faced another boy, hardly older than sweet, lost Willy, holding a machine gun almost bigger than he was. He pleaded, desperately wishing to avoid another senseless death. He didn't want to kill a child.

He got lucky. Was anything in this nightmare lucky? But the boy fled. He breathed a sigh of relief and turned… to find another body at his heels, a knife through its right eye.

He exchanged a quick glance with Carl, silent understanding again, and they were urging the rag-tag group of boys towards the embassy.

---

Trammell, true to character, attempted to arrest Jack and refuse the children entrance. Jack yelled at him, broke free of the marines long enough to take hold of the political hack's shoulder and hiss a warning into his ear.

"If you don't let the children in _now_ then someday either the Colonel or I will find you and you'd better pray that it's me."

He was dragged away, but not before Trammell gave him – and then Carl – a terrified glance. Whatever Trammell saw in Jack's own eyes, in Carl's eyes, he didn't know, but it had the man shivering despite the sweat dripping down his face. It was enough to make him do the right thing.

What mattered was that they had finally made it to relative safety: thirteen scared boys and two exhausted, grief-stricken men.

---

It was a struggle to get Trammell to allow Jack to stay with Carl and his children once they arrived on the other side of the border, but – again – the man did not have the backbone to stand up to the combined force of will that Jack and Carl could bring to bear. Carl had taken his turn to whisper something in Trammell's ear, an apparently casual arm thrown over his shoulder. It worked. Trammell paled and gave way again.

Jack got stuck with a pair of marines as an escort. He ignored them. There was too much to do. Desmond had to go to an overworked, understaffed hospital. There were doctors to intimidate and nurses to be intimidated by. But they got him treatment and the general opinion was that he'd survive. Jack didn't like leaving him in the hospital alone, wounded and grieving for his brother, but they had to find housing for the rest of the kids.

Carl met that challenge with characteristic flair. Any place of lodging was overflowing with refugees, so he went straight for the most expensive option available, the high-flung penthouses in the sole Western-style hotel that no one else could afford.

Herding a bunch of ragged, wide-eyed children through the elaborate lobby, Jack leaned over to tell Carl, "We should make Trammell pay for this."

He got a wicked, dimpled grin in return as Carl waved a silvery credit card in the air.

"Trammell _is_ paying for this."

Jack's eyes widened. "You didn't!"

"I did," Carl replied. "Picked his pocket on the helicopter. Figured he owed it to us."

Jack burst out laughing. Carl simply chuckled before seizing hold of a potentially wayward ten-year-old and efficiently guiding them all into the elevator.

---

They did serious damage to Trammell's credit card with room service; the boys wolfing down food the way only kids of that age can, though neither Jack and Carl stinted themselves either. That was followed by rounds of enforced bathing and repeated attempts to get the kids into beds, couches, and cots ordered from the now long-suffering hotel staff.

It seemed hours later when Jack and Carl were able to escape into the smaller bedroom they'd claimed for their own. Carl tossed his vest and shirt into the general direction of the closet, yanked off his shoes, dropping them carelessly, and lay down on one side of the large bed, his hands covering his face as he sighed and went limp.

Jack watched him with worry creasing deeper lines into the corners of his eyes. Despite his retirement from active service, Carl had remained militarily precise and neat. This wasn't normal behavior, but then – this was hardly a normal situation. Jack wondered if he even knew what 'normal' was.

It was his turn to sigh, to toss external layers of clothes and shoes aside, and collapse at his friend's side.

Carl was still pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes as spoke in his melodious voice. "If you want to leave later, I can easily knock out those two marines." He dropped his hands away and tilted his head sideways to look at Jack. "Wet behind the ears, the pair of them. Sloppy."

Jack half-smiled as he turned over on his side to face Carl, lifting up to rest his chin on his left hand, elbow buried in the thick mattress.

"No, I could get past them with my eyes closed. No…" Jack grimaced, briefly closed his blue eyes. "You were right. I can't keep running away. It's time I went home."

Carl stared intently at him, then quirked the corner of his mouth, creasing deep dimples into his right cheek. "I know that's not an easy decision, Jack, but I think it's the right one." He reached out to squeeze Jack's biceps. "If you need me, for anything, anytime, I'm here."

That hit deep. Jack had to bite back on a painful upsurge of emotion. He'd lost so many people, so many friends, and he'd never been good at saying those things, those simple, yet so difficult words. They had trembled at the tip of his tongue – so many times – and been held back, hidden until it was too late to say them anymore. Even now, even when this friend, this man he trusted with absolute certainty, could find it so easy to speak with an honest heart, Jack still couldn't find his own way to express himself.

Yet with Carl it didn't seem to matter. For the first time, he didn't feel inadequate because he couldn't put his emotions into language. It went without saying. They'd known each other for too long, been through too much.

Carl hadn't asked a single question when Jack called him out of the blue those few months ago.

"Come," was all he'd said. Of course he was welcome. They could use another pair of hands. The door was always open. The welcome had been a handshake, a squeeze of his shoulders, a smile, food and shelter, an unstinting friendship that didn't ask for anything in return.

Something heavy drained away from Jack, a burden he hadn't even known he'd been carrying. Pain, guilt, responsibility, too many impossible choices, and no one had understood how hard those choices were. What it meant when people's lives depended on the decisions you made and people died no matter what you did. Carl, though – Carl _knew_.

The most recent loss, the loss they'd shared, young Willy, too young to die in a senseless accident because some bastard had left a random bomb hidden in the bushes, was just one more fiber in the weave of that bond between them. It colored everything now; Jack could see the grief etched into Carl's expressive face. His dark hair had strands of silver in it now, like tinsel, the scruff on his cheeks was partly white. Experience, bitter, harsh, demanding, had written itself upon him just as it was inscribing itself on Jack.

Mirror images, Jack thought again. He was gazing into his own reflection.

It scared him but it also uplifted him, because here was unconditional acceptance. Carl would never judge him; Carl would know - did know - how harshly Jack judged himself. Carl had gotten it right that very afternoon, in a quiet moment that seemed a lifetime ago now, when he said that men like them counted only the ones they'd lost.

"I found a way to live with myself," Carl had explained. Jack wanted, needed, the same thing: a way to live with himself. And strangely it was only now, staring into Carl's solemn dark eyes, that he felt the first inkling of that self-acceptance.

He lifted his hand to take hold of Carl's, moving it down between them. Carl's hand was smaller than his, elegant, almost deceptively delicate. Fine bones under tanned skin, the marks of hard work overlaying the older calluses from handling guns and knives. A few fine scars indicated past wounds, blade slices and burns from explosives.

Carl's fingers curved over his own larger hand, the deft, certain touch both familiar and foreign. He'd seen those fingers wield a knife with deadly efficacy, weave steadily through the innards of a ticking bomb, toss a ball to a laughing child, carefully minister to a scraped knee. Death and life woven in human flesh.

But he'd never just held them, simply clutched at Carl's fingers for longer than a few precious seconds, felt them, traced the web of skin between thumb and forefinger, drawn a sensitive fingertip over his palm. Held and examined and focused on something as simple as another man's hand.

"Carl," he said, trying to find his voice, not even sure what he would say if he did, but Carl stopped him.

Moving his hand away from Jack's grip, he pressed his fingertips against Jack's mouth, silencing him. Jack let his own touch fall gently on Carl's narrow wrist, agreeing, yes, no words were necessary here and now.

Carl's smile was warm, genuine, before his expression tightened with purpose and he suddenly pushed Jack over onto his back. His fingers on Jack's lips were replaced with his mouth.

Jack moaned, a growl that grew from deep in his chest, even as they kissed – a first kiss that was a brutal kiss – a hungry, _desperate_ demand. He surged upward and over, tumbling Carl down, splaying out his heavier weight over Carl's slender body.

A faint chuckle of amusement from Carl was swallowed into Jack's lungs as he deepened the kiss, running his tongue over sharp, crooked teeth and then plunging it deep. Carl's tongue rasped over his, his chin arched up, pressing them together, fighting to dig into Jack's mouth, lips crashing together and bruising against teeth.

Jack grasped Carl's shoulders, feeling the muscles and bone shift under his touch, then explored ravenously, silken strands of hair, taut sinewy forearms, narrow waist and bony hips, thighs like iron even through the cloth of his pants. He slid a hand under the hem of Carl's T-shirt and glided up the satiny stretch of his back, tracing each puckered line of an old scar, spreading over a smooth expanse of deltoid muscle and sharp scapula.

Carl's hands followed a similar path on Jack's body, exploring, learning, pausing to stroke and tease wherever a touch drew a sigh or groan. His fingers caressed Jack's flank, slid between them to linger on his belly, sparking a wave of fire through his nerves that made his entire body tremble.

He yanked at Carl's T-shirt, gave way with almost a moan of mixed frustration and approval as Carl pulled his hands away from Jack's skin to deal swiftly with disposing of both of their shirts. Jack tried to help, but almost got himself tangled.

Carl shoved him back over, taking control – perhaps he had always had it – and Jack could not find it in himself to argue. In fact it felt good to settle back into the soft mattress and just give himself over to this man, to let everything go but the sweet pleasure of the moment.

As strange as it was to feel the stubble on Carl's cheeks and jaws scratch against his skin, to feel the hard, solid strength of a man's body pressed down on his, it was also the most erotic sensation Jack had ever experienced. He wrapped his thighs around Carl's slender hips and pulsed upwards, gasping against the curve of Carl's neck as he was forced back down, the heat and friction of their bodies, even still half-clothed, spinning him fast towards the edge.

Carl seemed to sense that and he slowed his kisses, his caresses. Drew them both back just enough to stretch this out, to make the mutual exploration last. Part of Jack, a fierce, almost angry need, wanted to fight him for it, but another part exulted in the change to a more leisurely pace, seeking to make this fragment of time longer, to hold onto it, to treasure it.

Tender lips followed the line of his collarbone, a warm, wet tongue licked down across his sternum, and Jack threaded his fingers into Carl's short hair, then across his shoulders, his upper arms, deliberate now, memorizing each inch of skin. He traced the tattoo on Carl's right upper arm, the little lizard with its outstretched claws and long tail, then shifted, bending his body to allow his tongue to follow his fingers.

Carl dipped his tongue into Jack's navel, his hands drawing exquisite circles on Jack's belly, slowly finding his belt and undoing it. That was too much, the ravening appetite took over, and Jack yanked Carl back up, threw him over, and fought a battle with their remaining clothes.

With those gone, it was pure flesh on flesh, Carl accepting, dragging Jack on top of him. His legs tangled with Jack and their hips thrust together, trapping their swollen cocks between them. The sensation of Carl's heavy arousal rubbing against his own made Jack whimper in startled desire. Carl answered with a husky moan of his own, his body tensed and trembling beneath Jack.

It was going to be quick now, urgent, desperate, two sweaty bodies thrusting and rubbing against each other. Jack's fingers clutched bruises into Carl's arms while Carl's hands dug into Jack's shoulders as though he could bury them into his skin. Both men fought together for the final rush of ecstasy, mouths catching in open kisses, releasing, seeking again, as every sinew in their bodies strained. Carl hooked a knee over Jack's ass, tightening the squeeze, and that was enough to toss Jack over the edge.

Carl followed him, his teeth biting down painfully on Jack's neck, a tiny additional ounce of sensation in the fire and flood that washed him away.

---

They collapsed in a sweaty, messy jumble, breathing harshly, still entwined. Jack slithered down to rest his head against Carl's shoulder, not quite ready to look up into his eyes. What they'd just done was something Jack had never expected, would never have even considered before.

But Carl – Carl was somehow stronger or perhaps simply more honest with himself. He urged Jack up to look at him, to meet his eyes, and air caught in Jack's throat as he gazed into those dark orbs.

Understanding and sated relief were all that Jack saw. And Jack _knew_ instantly that this had never really been about sex. Oh yes, that had been there, the sexual hunger, the basic biological need to assert life in the aftermath of death; and, yes, grief and the need to assuage pain and loss, that had been there as well. Yet, in its core, this had truly been about friendship.

Friendship and trust. Giving and sharing. Unconditional acceptance.

Jack smiled and Carl smiled back. They exchanged the softest of kisses before nestling down to sleep.

The morning would bring problems and responsibilities, Carl shouldering his chosen burden of caring for his children while Jack left for America and whatever awaited him there. It would bring a handshake and a parting. But that was then.

For now, there was a simple peace, an ease of mind and body and soul, that Jack had nearly forgotten existed.

Peace – and sleep, perhaps without nightmares, for one gentle African night.

END


End file.
